The Ever Ticking Clock
by ifinallylearnthowtolie
Summary: Before Sherlock had met John, he had tried to kill himself. He had, of course, failed, but how and why?


**_A/N:_ This is an extremely oddly-written story, I must admit. A little experiment of mine... It is meant to follow Sherlock's thoughts- what he understands, thinks and feels.**

**Set pre- John.**

**This story deals with the themes of suicide and drugs.**

_**I own nothing and make no profits.**_

**Please review? Let me know if you understood/liked this.**

* * *

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Three ticks rebounding throughout the skull. Something for the consciousness hold on to.

_Sigh,_

_Blink, _

_Breathe._

Bodily functions- they were necessary.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

The darkness was closing in around the edges of the room, blurring the door and the chair and the lamp and the-

_Blink,_

_Breathe, damn it._

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Minor organs began failing. The eyes refused to close. There was a muted stinging- overridden by the-

Tick.

The clock, so constant and... It was there, now so sinister and foreboding.

_Breathe._

Sounds began to dull. Thudding- coming from the chest- escalating and booming throughout the entire body.

So this was death? Coming, as promised, with gruelling pain.

In the chest, a white hot burning sensation was spreading.

_Brea-the._

The darkness closing in.

Was that a voice?

The head lolled- weak, rolling on top of a neck with no bones.

Or were there bones? There was no longer any sensation above the shoulders.

No way to judge.

_Breath-e._

Eyes no longer seeing.

Darkness.

The brain was screaming.

_Stupid! So stupid! _

_Bre-ath-e, for goodness' sake breathe!_

Shuddering.

The world vibrating.

Or was it the body? There was no way of knowing.

Then the surface below the body- the sofa- gone.

Thud.

_Breathe!_

The floor. The body had fallen. Convulsions, then.

_So, so stupid._

There was the voice again. What was it saying?

The ears malfunctioning. Core organs working so hard to-

_Brea-_

_Bre-_

_Breathe!_

"Sherlock!" the voice knew his name. If the mouth was co-operating and not gargling, he'd cry out.

A limb- an arm- pinned to the floor.

Heat and pressure on one wrist.

The body fitting violently, limbs flailing wildly.

Eyes rolling back into head.

"Breathe, Sherlock!"

Breathing, very important.

A whoosh of air filling the lungs.

Consciousness slipping.

Dizziness.

Tick.

Why did death have to hurt? Slicing, pain shooting down the legs like ice.

Body fighting. An entire war in the chest, ammo ricocheting-

Fighting to keep heart going.

Pressure on the chest.

"Sherlock, please. Breathe! Help is on the way,"

_Too late for help, surely?_

Loss of feeling in legs.

The darkness exploding with fireworks of light.

_Brea-th-e._

Tick.

Tick.

Convulsions slowing. Brain closing down. Too rapidly.

Internal pain flaring.

Body coiling by instinct.

And then...

_Nothingness. _

_

* * *

_

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

The ever-ticking clock.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

* * *

And then…

_Breathing._

How long had it been since the last breath?

How long since the pain?

Not worth worrying about, because there were voices in the room.

"-incredibly stupid. He's lucky to have reached this stage of recovery. Most people would have died before we arrived."

"Yes. He is very strong," a familiar voice.

"No, he's just lucky, sir."

"That's true. I didn't realise he was so bad. I suppose this is my own fault. I should have kept a better eye on him," definitely familiar.

"With all due respect, you weren't the one shooting him up, Mr Holmes."

Holmes?

A rueful laugh. Then a sigh.

That sigh- it was a sound consistently heard in childhood. Weary. Old before its time.

Eyes fluttering.

"Sherlock?"

_Mycroft._

It was always Mycroft.

Numbness. Confusion.

The voice pulling the consciousness out- out of the darkness.

"Sherlock, wake up," Mycroft ordered.

Eyes snapped open.

Light searingly bright.

Eyes closed. Screwed up. Pain, blinding pain.

A laugh again, genuine and surprised from beside him.

Mycroft was happy.

Eyes blinking now, opening- accustomed to light.

"Glad to have you back," Mycroft commented.

Tongue too big in mouth. Vague murmurs of words escaping the lips.

No way of replying.

A frown crinkled Mycroft's brow. He understood.

"That will be the drugs," he explained, "The ones you have been given- not the ones you decided to try and kill yourself with."

A pause. Mycroft held the hand closest to him.

Warmth, softness- calming.

"I don't know why you did it, Sherlock, but you'll never do it again."

A weary glance out of the sunken eyes set in the head laid on the hospital bed pillow.

A sincere stare from old eyes looking down from above.

A promise made. No words were needed. The unspoken vow.

Perhaps this time it might be kept.


End file.
